


Unintended

by abitingsmile



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, Jensen is a sharp dressed man, M/M, Serial Killers, but wait there's a twist!, incidental appearances by other cast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abitingsmile/pseuds/abitingsmile
Summary: My lone fic I managed for SPN Masquerade 2020, started at a different event and polished off for this one! Waste not, want not? Or something.Prompt: "J1 is sad and lonely on Valentine's night. J2 is an incubus in search of a meal. J1 is the first willing victim he's ever encountered."I listened to The Killer'sWhite Demon Long Songwhen writing, but the title is ganked from Muse'sUnintended, which is also a glorious song and terribly apropos...
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	Unintended

Tonight's a Tom Ford night.

Jensen zips the black mohair silk trousers, adjusts himself. Steps into cap-toe boots, picks a fleck of lint off his thigh. The fit is tailored, discreet, perfectly cut. He smooths a fold from the coordinating sweater—flat over his chest, down his torso—and swipes a knuckle across his chin, shadowed with just a dust of beard. Brings out his jawline.

The smell of pomade and Tobacco Vanille hangs in the dim of the apartment. He assesses his smile in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, has to remind himself how to look approachable even though after all these years, it should be second nature. It's not. It always takes a moment of effort to get the feel for it again. To tamp down the thrill of need in the pit of his stomach, and the glitter of threat from his eyes.

Satisfied, he hums to himself. _I'm in the mood for love, simply because you're near me ..._ Behind, the night city is a sea of diamonds.

It's unseasonably warm, which works in his favor, no need for more than a light coat. He picks up a jacket from where it's draped across a chair … narrow shawl collar, cuffed sleeves, a smoke pattern to the luxe fabric. Last season's look but he likes it, and most people wouldn't have the taste to know otherwise. The interior pocket is deep, a must. He shrugs into the jacket and settles his shoulders. Broad, tidy.

From the drawer of a console table, he removes a small sheath of leather. It sits in his palm perfectly wrist to fingertip. The blade inside is sharp as a needle, older than the city itself, and he slips the knife into the jacket's breast pocket next to a slim cigarette case. Rehearsing his smile one last time, Jensen grabs his keys and leaves for the evening, the door snicking closed as his footsteps fade down the hall.

He always drives himself, black-on-black Mercedes, because he doesn't need Lyft or Uber or taxi drivers remembering his face, and he doesn't park with valets for the same reason. He prefers to come (and come and come) and go as need be, let the rabbits follow him back to his car or some hotel room or the trash-spotted thickets of a city park. He needs a quick escape and a trunk available for storage. Whatever variables he can control, he does. There are things he leaves up to fate—because somehow that feels as though the universe is aligning certain destinies—and there are things that demand attention to detail. 

A pricey, hipster sort of place, The Undertakers is the new hotspot in town, speakeasy-themed right down to the lack of signage: nothing but the silhouette of a small coffin painted on the brick above the door, a barred peephole and a single spotlight signifying their place of business. But everyone who's anyone knows about it, as word travels faster than paid advertising. Patrons still have to be in the right circles, though. And Jensen is.

He knocks, and the small, inward-swinging door that serves as a peephole opens in charming formality. The face on the other side is bearded and stout, collared shirt barely containing his thick neck. The doorman nods as Jensen passes muster and is allowed to enter without the hassle of fishing out identification.

The man murmurs an “Evening,” and Jensen offers him that practiced smile.

There's a narrow hallway, lined in flocked wallpaper and vintage photos, and as Jensen enters the club proper, the music and smells swell. The warmth of a room packed with bodies and laughter hit him like a home-cooked meal. Young and loose and moneyed, the crowd surrounds him and he's suddenly hungry in ways he forgot he could feel.

Of course it's packed for Valentine's Day, and the crowd is partying in more red and hearts and roses than usual. He threads his way to the bar, wedging himself between a plaid shirt and a petite, dark-haired woman. She tosses her hair and looks up at him with cunning eyes and rouged lips. She's the sort that uses her tight body and a flutter of false lashes to get what she wants; Jensen is well versed. He arches a brow and ponders her value, whether she wears a ring or will leave with him, alone, but the arrival of a tall redhead nips his thoughts in the proverbial bud. The ginger sidles up beside the brunette and puts a possessive hand on her ass, and they smirk as he feigns a wide-eyed apology. He offers to buy the women drinks, which of course they accept. Never underestimate the importance of manners. Any other time, he might press his luck with the both of them, but tonight is not that night. He toasts them with his own Manhattan and moves on. Jensen is on a bit of a schedule.

He needs to find this evening's company and get out succinctly. The fewer eyes on him, the better. 

This isn't something he does all the time; he's not out of control, god, no. It's cyclical, is all. When the urge creeps up and oozes, and the blackest part of his subconscious seeps through the gyri and sulci into his waking world, unless he answers it—unless he feeds it and respects its penetrative guile—things will get … untoward. In a potentially irreparable way. The years have taught him this. But he likes it here, feels good, and on a different night, he might risk lingering.

As he stands several inches taller than most of the crowd, he can scan across the tops of heads to single out a loner. He dodges elbows and drinks, his pulse syncing with the trip-hop pound of the base coming up through the parquet floors. It's no surprise when he's jostled from behind, but it does slosh his drink onto his sleeve and he shoots a glance at the cause. It's a slightly older man, rowdy hair and bright blue eyes that tip down at the corners. Grinning far too wide for sober. Jensen gets that ping of possibility and starts to soften his own expression, until his gaze drifts over the guy's shoulder and Jensen sees _him_. In profile, talking on the phone against a far wall. And it's like the gravity in the room shifts ever so slightly. He feels it in his belly.

Tall—taller than Jensen and that takes some doing—the man has good shoulders but narrow in the waist, angular features tempered by delicate lips and a tumble of longish chestnut hair. Nondescript clothing, attractive but not overly so. Probably athletic, which is something Jensen can't afford to ignore. But trouble echoes in the man's furrowed brow and the way he stares at his phone, and this is Jensen's opening.

He brushes past ol' Blue Eyes and sidles up beside the man on the phone, all casual-like, and watches from the corner of his eye. The man is clearly frustrated, running a hand through his hair and setting his jaw as the phone goes dark. Jensen makes like he notices by happenstance over a sip of his drink. “You alright? I mean, I couldn't help but no—”

The man flashes an insincere smile. “You know, there should be some sort of instant karmic backlash for people who break up with you on Valentine's Day, right?”

“Ouch.”

“Big fucking ouch.”

Jensen pivots, melting into sympathy. “How long?”

“Would've been eight months. It was … it was just starting to go somewhere. I thought maybe, _maybe_ this was the one. What do I know?” The man blinks away what might be tears.

“Sorry. I mean, really.”

“Thanks.”

Pausing, Jensen leans forward as the music kicks up. It's a benignly intimate gesture, and he knows it. He flicks his eyes, staring up through his lashes. “This is the most wildly inappropriate time, but … can I buy you a drink?”

The man blinks, brows canted, until slowly, he smiles. He has dimples and straight white teeth. Twenty-three minutes and three drinks later, they're crashing out of the club and Jensen's scuffing the back of his suit on a brick wall around the corner, kissing Jared—that's the guy's name—so hard his lip splits.

They've got their hands all over each other, fistfuls of Jared's hair in Jensen's clutches, Jared's long fingers curled painfully around Jensen's biceps, and he can feel Jared's interest firmly pressed up against his own. Kissing, biting. Jensen's starting to sweat, and he wants to shake out of his jacket right here in this filthy alley stinking of exhaust and puddles of … whatever. Jared shoves back a lapel and leans in to suck at Jensen's throat, the music from the club muffled through the brick, a backbeat to their recklessness.

A shadow passes at the opening of the alley; they pause, flicking glances to the passer-by. And Jensen knows they should head for his car, but he can't let go. His heart is in his throat and he's so hard, it hurts. The alcohol has gone straight to his head, making his thoughts sloppy, and in the back of his brain, he knows this is rash. They kiss and slide farther into the shadows as Jared squirms with Jensen's buckle, grinning through the dark with just a smudge of blood on his teeth.

Jensen grins back, whipping off his belt in one smooth hiss. Jared gets Jensen's sleeve bunched up and stuck around his elbow, swears, and a silver case clatters to the bricks, spilling cigarettes. A siren echoes off the buildings, blocks away.

Jared freezes.

“What? You got unpaid parking tickets?” Jensen laughs under his breath. 

Scrunching his eyes, Jared pulls back. He slips something from the breast pocket of Jensen's coat, something thin and dark and leather.

“Letter opener,” Jensen says easily.

“Right.” Lifting the knife up to the quarter moon, Jared cants his head, squints at the carved handle. “Inscribed with ancient Sumerian?”

“I'm sorry?” Jensen should sober up quick. His fist tightens around his belt, but he's glued to the spot by sudden want and a raging hard-on. The urge that cuts through the daze is that he needs to kiss this beautiful man until their lips are raw and fuck him like the world doesn't matter. Which, intellectually, he knows is beyond weird. His lizard brain is screaming at him _run run run_ but he stands there staring at Jared's hooded eyes, and Jensen's fingers relax, dropping the belt.

“What do you do with this—” Jared flips the knife in his fingers, “—bauble? Hmm? Smells like blood. You need to clean it better.”

Jensen tries to speak but all the spit has left his mouth.

Sliding the knife from its sheath, Jared takes a step closer and grazes the tip across Jensen's cheek. Doesn't break the skin, but damn if it doesn't make him shiver. “You don't know what this knife is really for, do you? What it could do to the likes of me? Well, isn't this a lucky night for both of us.” He steps back again and walks a few paces down the alley, where he drops the knife into a storm drain. 

_run run run_

“What? What are you going to... ”

When Jared looks back at him, there's a metallic sheen to his eyes. A streetlight halo. “I like you. I do.”

Jensen's pulse kicks up and he forces words. “I. I like you, too.”

“I know.”

Sauntering back to Jensen, Jared curls a warm palm behind Jensen's neck and smiles. Leans in and crushes their mouths together. Euphoria floods Jensen's system and before he can so much as reconsider the level of peril he's in, he's fumbling with Jared's shirt buttons and groaning to get inside him. Jared pulls back and spits into his own palm, slips a hand between them and flicks open Jensen's slacks. Tugs him brutally. 

Myriads happen at once. The world tunnels and Jensen's ears are ringing and the deepest swell of desire he's ever felt floods his lungs, his belly, his cock. He shoves his tongue into Jared's mouth again, starving for it. Jared jacks him hard, expertly, and when there's no way Jensen can stand it anymore, he comes, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He chokes on a moan, knees buckling, and then there's nothing.

The strobing of passing headlights penetrates his dreams, feverish Boschian visions of saints and imps eating each other, to the syncopation of traffic. His head is pounding and he cracks an eye. He can't move his limbs, they feel like lead, and he vaguely recognizes the purr of his own engine.

“Nice wheels.”

Jensen lets his head loll in the direction of the voice, sees a familiar profile: mussed hair, angles, iridescent eyes. He tries to speak, but his tongue is as heavy as the rest of him.

“Don't stress; it'll wear off. Since I didn't let you die.” Jared half-chuckles. “You, sir, are a bottomless well of …” He purses his lips, considering. “I've never tasted anything so _perfect_.”

Swallowing, Jensen tries to get his bearings, the passing buildings, anything. He can just barely make out the Google Map on the car's console, but eventually recognizes the directions to his apartment. How Jared got the address is a mystery; Jensen has always been so, so careful. Until.

“So, how many have _you_ let die, hmm?”

All the blood runs out of Jensen's face. He feels it.

“We're not so different, you and I, are we? The hows and whys, maybe, but not the wherefores.” He drifts his fingers through Jensen's hair. “But, I like you. I really do.”

They drive in silence for a bit, save the sounds of the city. Gradually he can feel his lips tingle and begin to lose their numbness.

“Wh-why?”

Jared grins, all dimples and teeth. “You're deliciously broken, Jensen. This … we can have fun with.”


End file.
